


until our ribs get tough

by watchtheleaves



Category: Boy Meets World
Genre: Autistic Shawn Hunter, BEFORE I FORGET this is for lu and charlie :D love u kids, Bisexual Shawn Hunter, Canon Divergent, Coming Out, Gen, Lesbian Angela Moore, M/M, also mr turner adopted shawn, angela moore has adhd, anxious angela moore, bestiesss, except angela is already there, no i really do love them, out of character probably sorry abt that, platonic ? in case that wasn't clear but i think it is, shawn hunter has adhd, soft :D love these kids, this takes place at the end of their junior year, this was better in my head im so sorry, uhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26117317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchtheleaves/pseuds/watchtheleaves
Summary: shawn and angela open up to each other.
Relationships: Background Shawn Hunter/Cory Matthews, Shawn Hunter & Angela Moore
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	until our ribs get tough

**Author's Note:**

> hi :D i think this fic isn't as good as i wanted it to be but i wrote it and i wanted to have it out there! especially because lu and via (hey ily) wanted me to post it sooooo, yeah! i'm sorry if it's too out of character - i have really specific ideas of these characters when i'm writing and they don't always stick to canon. i hope you enjoy it anyway !!
> 
> tw: coming out and anxiety related to it, mentions of meds

A quote by Plato was imprinted on the first page of the Geometry textbook. It read, “ _Geometry will draw the soul toward truth and create the spirit of philosophy._ ”

Angela thought that was stupid.

After drilling two imaginary holes into the book and making no progress in the slightest for two hours, Angela shut it closed and sat up straight. She could hear Mr. Turner speaking on the phone with someone on the other side of the closed door; she could smell what was soon to be he and Shawn’s dinner; she could see her friend pacing in front of the bed and hoping to memorize useless facts about World War II. She just couldn’t seem to find Geometry any more exciting than everything around her.

Shawn stopped when she sat up and dropped the book on her lap and both her hands over it. He turned to her quizzically, knowing she was gathering the words for a question, so he slowly approached the bed and perked an eyebrow.

“What?” He said.

Angela opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. “You’re my best friend, right?”

“Well, I’d think Topanga’s—”

 _Wrong answer_. “Shawn.”

Shawn looked at her and turned more serious. He sat on the other end of the bed and nodded.

“Yeah. Best of the best. What’s wrong?”

He was rubbing his fingers against the palm of his hand. There was hair that fell on his face, and his shirt was the same he wore on the fifteenth of every month. Angela closed her eyes and begged her brain to focus on the task at hand and stop dodging—to, just this once, dial down and let her take the wheel.

She took a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” Shawn asked, concern mixing with the kindness in his voice. Angela wanted to cry at how nice he was—how unkind he would turn in the following minutes. “Do you want me to call John?”

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door. Angela’s head snapped up.

Mr. Turner’s head appeared through the doorframe. “Hey, kids,” he smiled. Angela still had a hard time assimilating how paternal and nurturing a person could be—especially when that person was her English teacher and not just Shawn’s legal-guardian-turned-parent.

“Hey, John,” Shawn said, smiling. “Burned the kitchen down, yet?”

The man grimaced mockingly then turned to Angela. She now could see the entirety of his face and the hand that was holding the knob. He had an apron on, which was a rather endearing thing to see. The apron had a stain of sauce that would probably not come off, but maybe Mr. Turner was also a genius at doing laundry, considering how domestic he appeared.

She blinked. Mr. Turner raised both eyebrows only slightly before speaking like he was just then remembering what he was doing there.

“Are you staying for dinner, Angela?”

She wasn’t. Angela had come over to study, and when she couldn’t take it anymore, she would tell Shawn. Then, Shawn would freak out, would lose his mind, would yell. Shawn would say horrible things, and _you better leave immediately and never come back_. The next day, Angela would skip school, or maybe she would never go back at all.

Shawn turned to her and saw what was probably a mixture of raw nerves and sickness. He smiled just a little, mostly with his eyes, then turned to his guardian.

“Yeah, she is.”

“Cool,” Mr. Turner said. He turned to close the door and over his shoulder he exclaimed, “I’m gonna order some pizza. This thing’s burnt.”

The door made a click. Shawn chuckled and shook his head. He was happy, Angela could see, even when he was also concerned and probably overthinking because this was Shawn, and Shawn was one to think the worst was always yet to come. Which it was, in a way, if he cherished Angela’s friendship. Hopefully, he didn’t.

He turned to her, and even when he slipped back into his most known state—a preoccupation that is almost fear—, Angela could tell he was content, safe, living a happy life. Shawn was everything she had ever hoped he’d be, and she was bittersweetly pleased that if she had to find a time to ruin their friendship forever, it was this.

Shawn’s eyes were carving into her soul, much like she’d been doing with the Geometry textbook. She found an escape by looking out the window. Shawn’s room was nice now that it seemed his and not just anyone’s. She liked that.

A girl was walking a dog down the street. The air was fresh; the weather was perfect for a night of spring in Philadelphia. She looked straight down, contemplating the five-stories-height. There was a small fire escape by one of the windows in the living room, and Angela wondered why she had never seen Shawn go outside.

She had been to that apartment a considerable number of times. She knew they kept a spare key under the plant pot by the door, and that Mr. Turner liked to make stew, but he wasn’t very good at it, and that Shawn’s room was the best place to do homework unless it was English, because then anywhere near Mr. Turner’s earshot was the place to be. She loved Shawn and Mr. Turner’s apartment. She had shared meals with them alone, with Cory, with Mr. Williams.

Other than the apparent lack of Shawn in what was soon to be her life, Angela thought about how she would miss the apartment more than anything.

The dog barked just as Shawn tapped her shoulder. Angela caught herself before startling but still turned to her friend warily.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Shawn asked in a way that only Shawn could convey.

Angela wanted to shake her head, laugh it off, take the words back. She wanted to go back to the comfort of studying in a bed that wasn’t hers, in a room that wasn’t hers. She had gotten used to Shawn, his mannerisms, his way of seeing life. Angela didn’t want to have to forget about that, and she hated herself for it.

It would’ve been easy to make something up if it had been anyone else. Angela just couldn’t—wouldn’t—lie to Shawn in that way. He deserved honesty. She had to be brave.

So, she braved: “I need to tell you something.”

Shawn was looking at her with not an ounce of mockery in his face. He shifted to cross his left leg and sit on it, stimming hands falling in front of him and between the two.

“What is it?”

“You know how you feel when you look at a girl?”

“Squashy?” He said, completely serious. Angela almost wanted to smile.

“Yeah,” she said. “Squashy. And you know how girls usually feel when they look at boys?”

At this, Shawn squinted and thought. “Not really,” he said.

Angela knew what he was doing: trying to lighten the mood, make the air less somber, push the hit that was unavoidably coming their way as far in time as possible. It was a smart move, like almost everything Shawn did when he thought no one was watching. It wouldn’t work then, however, no matter how badly Angela wanted it to.

Mr. Turner had turned on the radio or the TV, and a faint buzzing came accompanied by quiet voices. There was a t-shirt hanging from the chair in front of Shawn’s desk. Shawn had replaced hand-rubbing for picking at the end of his jeans.

She breathed; “Well… You know how girls look at you?”

Shawn smiled, turning pink in an instant. “Yeah,” he said rather sheepishly.

His watch beeped, which meant he had fifteen minutes before he had to take his medication. As a reflex, Shawn looked around and found the small, white-and-yellow box sitting on his desk. It had been scribbled on by him as had been every box in his possession. The beeping meant that it was fifteen minutes until seven o’clock and fifteen minutes until Mr. Turner called Shawn to help set the table.

Angela bit her tongue as she saw an imaginary point of no-return go past her eyes.

“Shawn, I—” She began. She moved the textbook from her lap and placed both hands in between them. Shawn quickly read the gesture and put a hand on top of hers. Angela didn’t look up, because she knew her friend was watching.

It was funny. Drama might have been Shawn’s forte, but it wasn’t hers.

“Whatever it is,” Shawn said, slowly, “You’re my friend. Always.”

He said it as if expecting a murder confession or something of the sort. That would be less heavy; Shawn would shrug, say something about an uncle of his _knowing a place_ , help her hide the body.

 _Always_. Angela hated lies.

“Shawn,” she started over. “I look at girls… the way girls look at you.”

The words rolled out of her tongue one right after the other like she was reading them from a script. She was looking at their hands so intently she was afraid they would catch fire.

“I look at girls,” she said, and was the bed shaking? “The way I thought I was supposed to look at boys. And—And I _like_ that.” She could stop. She should have, maybe, right then. Shawn wasn’t saying anything or even moving. “I like—girls. I like girls, and I just think you should know that.”

Her mind went blank. Where her brain had an extraordinary capacity of finding something interesting about every single detail of her surroundings, Angela couldn’t see anything, couldn’t even think. There was no Mr. Turner and no radio or TV; there was no watch beeping or dog barking or wind shuffling the few papers spread on the desk.

There was Shawn, and there was her. Not a single motion or a hair that moved, just the two of them existing in the most painfully long moment. She held her breath and got ready to go underwater.

What Shawn said was: “Oh.”

Angela looked up and saw Shawn, but she didn’t find anger, she didn’t find any harmful emotion. She waited for a moment to hear the yelling and screaming and _get out of my face right now_. When it didn’t come, she frowned.

“Shawn,” she said with intent. Maybe he hadn’t heard her correctly. Perhaps he was distracted or didn’t get the point. “I’m a lesbian,” she said slowly for the very first time in her life.

Shawn didn’t tear his eyes from her, but his face didn’t falter. “Okay,” he said calmly.

“Okay?” Angela echoed. She blinked one time and then five more to make sure she didn’t see any colorful spots. “What does that mean?”

“It means it’s okay,” said Shawn. He smiled, then, squeezing her hand. “What did you think I was gonna say? Because you like girls, I’m not going to be friends with you anymore?”

At that, Angela gaped. Her brain, racing and making eternal equations on what was going to happen, fell to a blank stop. Shawn read the _yes_ on her face and laughed heartily.

“Angela, you’re my friend,” he said. “You would have to—Actually, I don’t know _what_ you could do to make me not like you. You’re the coolest person I know.”

Shawn’s watch beeped again, and Angela heard Mr. Turner’s voice from the living room. “Kids, dinner!”

At seven o’clock, Shawn would stop what he was doing, take a pill from the box that read _Strattera_ , open the window to make sure the room would feel fresh when he came back, and then go to the living room and set the table. At seven o’clock, dinner would be waiting, and Mr. Turner would expect him to talk about his day, school, friends, or anything.

This time, however, Shawn didn’t move. He looked at Angela and then down at their hands. He bit his lip, and somehow, Angela felt nervous all over again.

“And,” Shawn added. “You’re gonna laugh. I don’t wanna steal your thunder or anything, but—” He scrunched up his face in a nervous twitch and bit the inside of his cheek. “I mean, I like girls, too.”

Angela looked at him. “I know, Shawn,” she said, rather obviously.

“No,” he said, almost interrupting her. He took a breath and turned into the Shawn that is barely ever visible to any other human being—one that is scared and calculating and fearing of change. Angela’s eyebrows knit together, and she nodded along, confused. “What I mean is—ah, fuck, wait.”

Shawn stood up, running a hand through his hair before dropping it to his side. His fingers rubbed against each other and traced patterns on the insides of his palm. He looked around for a moment before looking back at Angela.

It would’ve been a rare sight if it was anyone but Shawn and anyone but Angela. All she did was look at him patiently—although not one bit less confused—as he tried to make sense of what he wanted to say.

She got it. Words were hard. Angela liked to think that that was why she and Shawn got along so well: they understood when words weren’t good. They knew.

“What is it?” She asked, kind. Shawn’s eyes moved as if reading a script that was visible only to him. Angela stood up and walked the distance between them, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Shawn, it’s okay. You can tell me.”

Mr. Turner called them for dinner once again, and it served as a reminder that routine still existed, that his room was still his room, and Angela was still Angela. Shawn looked at her.

“I’m seeing someone.”

Angela frowned. “Like, dating? As in, long-term?”

The boy nodded. He said: “Dating. Long-term. It’s—we’ve been dating for two months.”

“What?” Her voice went up an octave. “Shawn, why didn’t you tell me?” She smiled, batting his arm softly. She waited for Shawn to laugh, to shrug, but he stood frozen in place. Angela pried: “Who is she? Do I know her? Is it Theresa? ‘Cause she’s been googly-eyeing you all year.”

Shawn shook his head. “It’s not Theresa. You do know him, though.”

 _You do know_ him _, though._

When his watch beeped to inform that he was five minutes late for his medication, Shawn took the window to step away from Angela’s direct line of sight and make his way towards the desk. He chugged a glass of water along with the pill, and when he turned to look at his friend, she was still doing the math.

Her eyes went wide. Shawn winced.

“Oh, my god.” She said. “Cory.”

As if mentioning the name made the situation any less painful, Shawn tilted his head and side-smiled. Angela stifled a laugh and gaped, surprised, at her friend.

“It’s Cory, isn’t it?” She said again as if that made it more believable. “You two have been practically married all your lives! But, aren’t he and Topanga—”

“No,” Shawn shook his head. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I mean, they did in middle school. Then, they just—” He shrugged, then smiled. His entire face was pink.

Angela smiled, too. She thought she should’ve known, and she scolded herself for not prying on about Shawn’s life more often. Then, because he seemed to be physically restraining himself from shaking like a leaf, she said:

“So, you like boys?” Shawn nodded. “And you like girls?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s called—”

“Bisexuality, I know,” she said. “Does anyone else know?”

“I mean, Cory does.”

They looked at each other for a split moment of silence, and Angela broke into laughter, quickly followed by Shawn. She couldn’t hear the dog barking or the radio over their laughs, and she couldn’t see how many markers were sprawled on the desk beside Shawn. Angela could only think that at that moment, she felt safer than ever. She willed herself never to forget that feeling.

There was a knock on the door before Mr. Turner showed his face once again.

“Shawn, Angela, if you don’t come set the table, that’s all there’s gonna be left to eat.”

The pair ceased their laughter for long enough to listen to the man, but they looked high and almost physically buzzing. Mr. Turner looked at Shawn, then at Angela.

“You two weren’t, like, making out, were you?”

Shawn’s jaw dropped, partially in defeat and partially in surprise. Angela looked at him, and the moment he looked back at her, they exploded back into laughter. Mr. Turner couldn’t do much more than stare blankly at them before shaking his head and leaving. When their breathing returned to normal, all that was left was their smiles and something in the way they looked at each other—an acute trust.

Angela turned to open the door and waited for Shawn to exit the room first. As he walked up to her, he stopped and said:

“Best friends, right?”

She felt herself smile before she could do anything about it. New, fresh air entered her lungs.

“Best of the best.”

**Author's Note:**

> so there's that! i tried not to overstep on what i can't talk about from the point of view of a non-lesbian sapphic (i'm bi) and just stick to what i _can_ say, but if i did overstep any boundaries please let me know!
> 
> wear a mask and stay safe! i'm on twitter as @xesouI (capital i) if you wanna see me have shawn hunter-related breakdowns every day!


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